


shoot out the lights

by chocobos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Arthur goes back to their old apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shoot out the lights

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at [ae_match](http://ae-match.livejournal.com/27527.html) for team angst. I'm just now getting around to posting this.

Arthur thought that he might’ve cried if he wasn’t already so strung out on caffeine and the prospect of reliving what they used to have. Now, all he had left was a ragged sweatshirt that was frayed along the edges, faded ‘OXFORD UNIVERSITY’ printed on the front (that was obviously stolen), and a broken coffee mug that he still hadn’t picked up from his kitchen floor.

When he thought about it, he’d always convince himself that maybe, there was a chance that he’d see Eames here too, reliving the past that they both used to cherish so much.

“No,” a voice reminded him, sounding solemn and sad, “that won’t happen.”

He knew this, but sometimes it was easier to convince himself of a fictitious situation than it was realizing the truth: that Eames was gone for good, that he was never coming back. He didn’t think about it most of the time, mostly because he knew that he couldn’t handle it, partly because he wanted to believe that it was all in his head.

The apartment that they had left was pretty much the same as it was a year ago. There was different furniture because different people lived there, making new memories and further burying the old -- Arthur wanted to resent them for that, but they weren’t even their memories to keep. The stove still had the rusted plates that were slightly burnt from when Eames had accidentally started a fire while making scrambled eggs. The tile was still stained blue from the time that Arthur had wrote a recipe for Lavender Lemonade when he was out of paper.

He ran his fingers along the side of the counter, relishing the coolness and sharpness of the edges. Arthur realized that he probably wouldn’t care if the corner had suddenly decided to prick him in protest.

This wasn’t his -- their -- home anymore, but it felt like it. He looked at the front door to his left, and could easily picture Eames coming home from the grocery store, with milk and shaving cream in his tanned hands (because between two grown men, products seemed to disappear rather quickly). It felt as if this was their own, because it once was, and in a way, it probably would always be. He had a life here, one that he appreciated and loved, mostly because of the man that he had been lucky enough to share it with, but it was his all the same.

Sometimes, it was easier to live in a fallacy, sometimes it was easier to live in the past under the false pretense that you would suddenly be happier.

Arthur practiced both.

It always made him feel better.

::::::

  
The letters had started coming three weeks into the job that was supposed to last one week less. Arthur tried to push the thoughts of doubt from his mind, and instead harbored the strength to open all of them.

The first was simple, and to the point. That should have been a sign that something was wrong, but he was blinded by the fact that he had something that was Eames’ again.

He never thought that it would come.

 _Darling,_

 _I know that you’re worried, and I want you to know that everything is okay. I’m okay. I love you, and I’ll be with you soon._

 _\- Eames._

Arthur had kissed the letter, and placed it in a box. He didn’t think of what this implied, but instead focus on the fact that Eames would be here soon.

(Soon never came.)

::::::

  
 _Darling,_

 _Thanks._

 _Eames_

  


::::::

  
Arthur was in the kitchen of their new house when he read that letter. He had been wearing a blue robe that was Eames’, one that he still slept with on top of his pillow at night; his hair destroyed in the way that the older man had always enjoyed.

Sometimes, when he thought that he could feel those blue-green eyes on him, he’d wear his hair like that to entertain the Brit. Those days were always the best.

He had been sipping coffee casually, expecting some kind of letter explaining that he was on a plane ride home, that he would soon be out of Finland’s clutches, and soon would be in Arthur’s. The letter slipped from his hand before the coffee cup did, and he didn’t flinch from either.

The word would have meant nothing else to anyone. They would’ve tossed the letter aside, and would have gone on with their day, because ‘thanks’ was so casually thrown around that no one thought anything of it, really. But not Arthur.

The thing was, Eames had never thanked Arthur for anything. He didn’t thank Arthur for saving his life, he fucked him instead, and that was just as well. He didn’t thank him for watering his plants, he just kissed his forehead and asked him to pass the butter. And the thing is, that Arthur never required him to, he knew that Eames appreciated everything, he had shown the manners that lacked in his words through his actions.

“Thanks,” he repeated. He didn’t catch how his voice faltered.

::::::

  
Eames’ body arrived three days later.

“I don’t think this is a smart idea, Arthur,” Cobb told him, putting his hand on his shoulder.

Cobb was his best friend, had been since they both took ‘English 101’ freshman year and had complained about the incompetent teacher. It was thirteen years later, but he still felt young.

“I know,” he replied. He did know that, because he knew that he wasn’t ready. But he would never be ready to view the body that was once pressed against his own when they fell asleep together. This was his only chance.

“It didn’t help, you know.” He said quietly. Arthur knew it didn’t, he had been at the funeral when Cobb was sobbing over the casket of his dead wife. But this time, it’s different. Mal wasn’t Eames, and Cobb wasn’t Arthur. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that her fate was decided as soon as she had been incepted.

Cobb had months to prepare for his wife’s death (and he knew, he definitely knew, he was just in denial), Arthur didn’t have any. There was something tragic about that, but it was lost with the choked sob that exploded in his chest when he saw the casket open from the back of the room.

“I don’t-”

“You don’t have to this, Arthur. Eames isn’t going to resent you if you don’t,” he replies, his hand warm and heavy on the small of his back.

“No,” Arthur agrees, and it’s the truth. “He won’t. But I will.”

It wasn’t going to be closure for him, because he didn’t think that closure would ever really come. That would never come, as he never got the chance to stop it, and a life without Eames was a life devoid of everything.

One minute he was standing next to Cobb, and the next he was in front of the casket. His face was nearly unnoticeable, it was covered in bruises and scratches, and Arthur was pretty sure that if he were alive, he wouldn’t be able to open his eyes. His fingers were normal, the same ones that had once brushed Arthur’s unruly hair out of his eyes in the morning, the ones that sent tingles down his spine. Those would never happen again.

He realized then that everything that he had gotten used to, would soon have to be forgotten, either by choice or by time. The British accented voice would never undo his weaving anymore, those fingers would never take off his shirt, and the man he loved would never be there to catch him.

That’s what made the tears sprout in his eyes; fall against the pale face that somehow still looked a little tan under the lights of the funeral home. It was what made Arthur fall to his knees, wrecked by grief, to sob into nothing because there wasn’t anything to hold onto anymore.

No one stopped him, as no one knew particularly how to, but he wished someone had.

::::::

  
Arthur looked at the casket, and lifted his fingers to touch the cold skin of Eames’ bruised face. He was bereft of life, but he was still the most beautiful thing that Arthur had ever seen.

“You’re welcome.”

::::::

  
Three months before Eames’ death, Arthur and Eames moved into a small house tucked away in the woods.

“Darling,” Eames beamed with pride as he leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “We’ve finally done it,” he whispered.

Arthur smiled at him, and pressed his body into the side of his. He tried not to notice how they seemed to coexist perfectly together, but it was hard to focus on anything else. “We did.”

“I’m glad to be out of that stupid apartment,” He laughed.

Arthur tried to be disgusted at the way that his eyebrows had wiggled at that, but he only found it endearing. “You loved that apartment, stop being dramatic.”

Eames shrugged, waving a dismissive hand, somehow managing to pull Arthur closer in the same movement. “Sure,” he said easily.

Arthur knew that he had won. “Come on, let’s go christen the house.”

The Brit had thrown his head back and let out a sound of mirth. Sometimes, when Arthur was feeling the most lonely, he would replay that sound over again in his head.

The memory never did it justice.

::::::

  
The memories clogged his vision before Arthur could stop them. Part of him wasn’t really sure if he wanted them to.

He didn’t go into the bedroom, mostly because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. There was something oddly unnerving about the way that he could easily fall back into step here, the way that he could easily go back to pretending to live here.

He knew that he would do so in a heartbeat, if this place wasn’t already occupied by anonymous faces that he had never seen before.

He’d like to think that Eames would do the same.

(He would.)


End file.
